A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Waste
by theITgardener
Summary: Billy lays awake at night overwhelmed with thoughts about the crew, himself and the direction his captain is going in. According to the crew he needs to get laid, he thinks he just needs to get out of his head. M/M slash, masturbation, oh and cursing.


"...why you haven't gotten laid yet?"

It wasn't really a question he had time to think about. Somewhere in the midst of being assigned as babysitter to his captain he just did not have the time. His captain took to the word "no" about as well as a spoiled child. This well-armed spoiled child turned megalomaniac had shaken him.

"I am your king."

Billy had always figured himself for good quartermaster material. He was charismatic and carried enough physical presence to back up the commands he ordered. Those commands typically came directly down from someone else however. The truth was he had the potential to be as unimposing as Dufresne, but sheer size and strength gave him a leg up.

So the crew always looked up to him, it was just a question of it was a day he'd earned it in their eyes. His inclinations towards playing it safe, keeping a mind to work. Well that was where he and Dufresne were of a singular mind. In fact he probably could have worked his way up through a blacksmiths apprenticeship or something else equally requiring a focused mind. Instead he was here on the Walrus with a crew more concerned about a fuck tent then the fact that they had to careen her.

Fuck the fuck tent.

There was a sheer shitstorm coming down around their heads, and the crew wanted a fuck tent and to know why he wasn't getting laid. He was ready to personally keelhaul the next bastard who felt like voicing out loud just how much he was thinking with his dick. It took that familiar pain, just next to his ear, to make him realize that he'd been clenching his jaw. His fists weren't far behind and a muscle in his bicep twitched.

He was angry, tense, and stuck. Joining another crew was his only logical way out, but better the devil you know. Vane's crew was just a different way of doing business and not one he had any interest in becoming familiar with He also couldn't leave the old man. Gates had provided as much guidance and support to Billy as he figured any other father probably provided to his kid. He had been away from civilization a little too long to remember properly. All in all, it was a tradeoff he could cope with.

He jammed his eyes shut upon realizing that his jaw had locked shut again. He was still angry and tense. Stuck was a moot point, but he could do something about the other two. The words "I am your king" and "fuck tent" and "not laid" just kept playing in his head over and over again. He wasn't sure how it was possibly to be dizzy while laying down but he was. He was probably also halfway to delirious by now as well. And then he laughed, out loud, with a ridiculous though striking him.

"Did the captain ever rally for a fuck tent before he was the high and mighty captain?" He suddenly couldn't get the image of Flint disappearing behind a roughspun flap out of his head.

Why didn't he go seek out the brothel on Nassau? Simple, it lacked the options, or at least one option in particular, that he was looking for. Port Royal was a better stop off, despite its tendency towards occasional legitimate occupation. The extra traffic and gaudy displays of the legal wealth allowed for a more diverse set of options. Those options meant that a deviant like he could go, and for a couple of extra copper coins, get a room, and in that room have a man ready and waiting. That man would not be one of those delicate little things just barely passing the cusp of manhood, but someone older, harder, and, if possible, stronger than he was.

With that thought his mind strayed back to the tent flap. It strayed to his captain giving in to an animal need other than power and control. In fact, the idea of something else controlling Flint, even if it was his dick, was sort of overwhelming. It was overwhelming to imagine a man that bloody-minded having to give in to something.

Who the hell was he kidding? It wasn't overwhelming; it was a fucking turn on. His cock halfway to full mast when his mind truly started wandering.

What would the Captain's face look like when he was in the throws of it?

Would he close his eyes?

Or keep them open, and have his partner receive a stare more penetrating than the act itself?

Would he sign his pleasure or growl through it as though it hurt to let go?

Billy's mind painted the image, with the captain's mouth slightly agape. He got chills just thinking about hot breath from that mouth hitting his neck. It was then that he took himself in hand, with a good tug to start things off and then willed his mind on. "Hell, in for a penny in for a pound" he thought. He then started stroking himself up and down at an even pace. He was too far gone to go slow, but had to many ideas left to ponder to go fast.

What if the woman Flint was with had tied him down, to make him have to sit still long enough to enjoy his pleasure?

What if she teased every inch of him and ignored him where he most wanted her?

Billy imagined what it would be like to be her, to move from those lips to along his jaw. What it would be like to pull an earlobe into his mouth and suckle it to make Flint hiss. There was that hot breath on his neck. He imagined nipping his way down Flint's neck, hard enough to pinch but not mark, like quick shocks to his system.

The next obvious stop in his descent would be the nipples. Billy's own were sensitive enough that he enjoyed some attention there himself, but would his captain?

Would Flint moan if he gently took one into his mouth and licked it? Or were teeth and a rough tongue more to his liking?

Billy's hand sped up as he involuntarily thrust into his fist. He ran his thumb along the ridge of the head and then up under the bottom. Precum was leaking down the front of his cock and served to offer some friction as he rubbed his thumb over the head. Billy then squeezed himself hard and sighed while arching his back as he did so. He needed to slow down a bit. Billy had seen the Captain's bare chest in battle enough times to have a clear picture of it in his mind.

He imagined running his tongue from sternum to navel in one long, slow lick, so slow that the fine hairs on his Captain's chest would burn his tongue. It was at this point that strangely enough Billy began to think. He had never pleasured a man, but instead had always been on the receiving end during his incredibly small handful of trysts.

And then he stopped, his hand stilled, his eyes flew open and his mind offered a whole new angle. Even though Billy had imagined himself in the place of the woman Flint might meet in the fuck tent, it never once occurred to him that Flint may have had a man waiting for him instead. Suddenly Billy was overwhelmed with images, a man pleasing Flint with his mouth, Flint's back arched, a man riding Flint for all he was worth.

Billy's hand picked up where it had left off at a now brutal pace while a fresh flow of liquid leaked down his cock. He clenched his jaw, sweat formed on his brow and as his mind was assaulted with images while he assaulted himself. He was breathless; chest heaving and mouth open much like he had imagined Flint's. He thought of Flint cumming, surrendering to the ultimate pleasure, of being the one to witness that surrender, that power-hungry bastard giving in because he may be a king, but he was still human. And on that thought Billy followed his imaginary Flint over the edge, dry fisting himself fast and hard with his seed pooling on his chest.

It was only after several minutes of sheer enjoyable blankness of the mind, that it occurred to Billy that maybe he had a touch of the power-hungry bastard in himself.

He smirked at the thought while grabbing the nearest cloth to clean himself up. Well if that's what it took to figure himself out, maybe the crew was right and he needed a good fuck more often.


End file.
